authentic, and he nodded. The agent turned and walked away.
“What is this?”
“I’d like to wait until my partner returns, sir. He’ll make sure everything’s clear. Would you care for a cigarette?”
“No, thank you. But I would like to know what this is all about.”
“The President would like to see you tonight.”
5
The brown Secret Service car was parked at the side entrance of the hotel. The two agents rushed Trevayne down the steps while the driver held the rear door open. They sped off down the street, turning south on Nebraska Avenue.
“We’re not going to the White House, Mr. Trevayne. The President’s in Georgetown. His schedule is such that it’s more convenient this way.”
After several minutes the car bounced along the narrow cobblestone streets that marked the residential area. Trevayne saw that they were heading east toward the section with the large, five-story townhouses, rebuilt remnants of a gracious era. They drove up in front of a particularly wide brownstone structure with many windows and sculptured trees on the sidewalk. The Secret Sevice man on the curb side got out, signaling Trevayne to do the same. There were two other plainclothesmen at the front door, and the minute they recognized their fellow agent, they nodded to each other and removed their hands from their pockets.
The man who first had spoken to Trevayne in the hotel led him inside through the hallway to a tiny elevator at the end of the corridor. They entered; the agent pulled the brass grille shut and pushed the automatic button: four.
“Close quarters in here,” said Trevayne.
“The Ambassador says his grandchildren play in it for hours when they visit. I think it’s really a kiddie elevator.”
“The Ambassador?”
“Ambassador Hill. William Hill. This is his house.”
Trevayne pictured the man. William Hill was in his seventies now. A wealthy eastern industrialist, friend-to-Presidents, roving diplomat, war hero. “Big Billy Hill” was the irreverent nickname given by
Time
magazine to the articulate, soft-spoken gentleman.
The elevator stopped, and the two men got out. There was another hallway and another plainclothesman in front of another door. As Trevayne and the agent approached him, the man unobtrusively withdrew a small object from his pocket, slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, and made several crisscross motions in Trevayne’s direction.
“Like being given a benediction, isn’t it?” said the agent. “Consider yourself blessed.”
“What is it?”
“A scanner. Routine, don’t be insulted. Come on.” The man with the tiny machine opened the door for them.
The room beyond the door was an immense library-study. The bookcases were floor-to-ceiling, the Oriental carpets thick, the furniture heavy wood and masculine. The lighting was indirect from a half-dozen lamps. There were several leather armchairs and a large mahogany table which served as the desk. Behind the table sat Ambassador William Hill. In an armchair to the right sat the President of the United States.
“Mr. President. Mr. Ambassador.… Mr. Trevayne.” The Secret Service man turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Hill and the President rose as Trevayne approached the latter, gripping the hand extended to him. “Mr. President.”
“Mr. Trevayne, good of you to come. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“You know Mr. Hill?”
Trevayne and the Ambassador shook hands. “A pleasure, sir.”
“I doubt it, at this hour,” William Hill laughed, coming around the table. “Let me get you a drink, Trevayne.Nothing in the Constitution says you have to be abstemious during any meeting called after six o’clock.”
“I wasn’t aware that there were any strictures before six, either,” said the President.
“Oh, I’m sure there are some eighteenth-century phrases which might apply. What’ll you have, Trevayne?” asked the old gentleman.
Trevayne told him,
“What is this?”
“I’d like to wait until my partner returns, sir. He’ll make sure everything’s clear. Would you care for a cigarette?”
“No, thank you. But I would like to know what this is all about.”
“The President would like to see you tonight.”
5
The brown Secret Service car was parked at the side entrance of the hotel. The two agents rushed Trevayne down the steps while the driver held the rear door open. They sped off down the street, turning south on Nebraska Avenue.
“We’re not going to the White House, Mr. Trevayne. The President’s in Georgetown. His schedule is such that it’s more convenient this way.”
After several minutes the car bounced along the narrow cobblestone streets that marked the residential area. Trevayne saw that they were heading east toward the section with the large, five-story townhouses, rebuilt remnants of a gracious era. They drove up in front of a particularly wide brownstone structure with many windows and sculptured trees on the sidewalk. The Secret Sevice man on the curb side got out, signaling Trevayne to do the same. There were two other plainclothesmen at the front door, and the minute they recognized their fellow agent, they nodded to each other and removed their hands from their pockets.
The man who first had spoken to Trevayne in the hotel led him inside through the hallway to a tiny elevator at the end of the corridor. They entered; the agent pulled the brass grille shut and pushed the automatic button: four.
“Close quarters in here,” said Trevayne.
“The Ambassador says his grandchildren play in it for hours when they visit. I think it’s really a kiddie elevator.”
“The Ambassador?”
“Ambassador Hill. William Hill. This is his house.”
Trevayne pictured the man. William Hill was in his seventies now. A wealthy eastern industrialist, friend-to-Presidents, roving diplomat, war hero. “Big Billy Hill” was the irreverent nickname given by
Time
magazine to the articulate, soft-spoken gentleman.
The elevator stopped, and the two men got out. There was another hallway and another plainclothesman in front of another door. As Trevayne and the agent approached him, the man unobtrusively withdrew a small object from his pocket, slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, and made several crisscross motions in Trevayne’s direction.
“Like being given a benediction, isn’t it?” said the agent. “Consider yourself blessed.”
“What is it?”
“A scanner. Routine, don’t be insulted. Come on.” The man with the tiny machine opened the door for them.
The room beyond the door was an immense library-study. The bookcases were floor-to-ceiling, the Oriental carpets thick, the furniture heavy wood and masculine. The lighting was indirect from a half-dozen lamps. There were several leather armchairs and a large mahogany table which served as the desk. Behind the table sat Ambassador William Hill. In an armchair to the right sat the President of the United States.
“Mr. President. Mr. Ambassador.… Mr. Trevayne.” The Secret Service man turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Hill and the President rose as Trevayne approached the latter, gripping the hand extended to him. “Mr. President.”
“Mr. Trevayne, good of you to come. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“You know Mr. Hill?”
Trevayne and the Ambassador shook hands. “A pleasure, sir.”
“I doubt it, at this hour,” William Hill laughed, coming around the table. “Let me get you a drink, Trevayne.Nothing in the Constitution says you have to be abstemious during any meeting called after six o’clock.”
“I wasn’t aware that there were any strictures before six, either,” said the President.
“Oh, I’m sure there are some eighteenth-century phrases which might apply. What’ll you have, Trevayne?” asked the old gentleman.
Trevayne told him,
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